


an angel's landing

by Sintharius



Series: Sergei Alekseyevich Dragunov [1]
Category: Tekken
Genre: Gen, his dad is totally based off another Russian video game character that me and the BFF play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-02-16 04:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18683980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintharius/pseuds/Sintharius
Summary: “You will be the death of me one day, Sergei.”“…I love you too dad.”Even the White Angel of Death needs a little R&R.Or, Sergei Dragunov and his dear old (adopted) dad.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fyztriarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyztriarch/gifts).



> For Anya, you silly woman - how dare you get me into Tekken and Sergei Dragunov?

Sergei Dragunov quietly hums as his car speeds towards the outskirts of Moscow.

The mission to capture the Devil during the Fifth King of Iron Fist Tournament was a bust. He had expected to meet the creature in the finals, defeating opponent after opponent and even chasing off that cursed agent Raven – but nothing came. There was no supernatural creature of any kind matching the description from High Command, and Dragunov returned home empty handed.

He had fully expected to be punished for failing his mission. Instead, they have commended him for his efforts – he suspected that they might have not realized how difficult the mission would be when they sent him to the tournament – and granted him a week of paid leave.

Which was just fine by him, anyhow. His fractured hand could use the break – civil unrest has started to break out all across Russia, likely due to the actions of the Mishima Zaibatsu - and he might be in for quite a while of action after his impromptu vacation.

Dragunov turns from the road and pulls the car into a driveway.

He’s home.

The house is small, hidden behind a fence made of trees and climbing plants. As inconspicuous as a family house would be – no one would suspect that the place is home to Russia’s infamous White Angel of Death. To people that don’t know him, at least; and said number of people can be counted on one of his hands.

He parks his car in the leaf-covered garage and walks over to the door. His right hand is splinted, so his left will have to do.

Knock three times. Wait ten seconds, then another three knocks.

***

The door clicks open.

A man in his late fifties, with dark hair greying at the temples and trimmed beard, stands at the door. He wears a simple white shirt and pants, though his pose suggested deeply ingrained military discipline.

His gaze softens upon seeing the visitor.

“ _Sergei… Come here._ ”

Dragunov finds himself enveloping the other man in a hug, his face buried into greying hair. The other man gently pats him on the back – he is by no means a small man, but Dragunov’s tall figure simply dwarfed him.

“ _Dad._ ”

“ _It’s good to see you home, son._ ”

They embraced for a good while before breaking apart and stepping into the house proper. The door shut behind them, keeping the Russian chill out of the warm living room.

“ _Your room’s still the same way you left it, Sergei. Go get yourself changed, I can’t imagine that suit would be comfortable to wear for a long time._ ” One of the things Dragunov liked about his father: He never needed to speak much to get himself understood. Most of the time.

***

He could feel his father’s gaze – the gaze of a veteran combat medic – eyeing him over, even as he sits down on the couch, having changed into loose pants without a shirt. Still the same old plushy thing that resembles a bed more than a couch, and yet he finds it more comfortable than any hotel room he’d been through during his time as a tournament contestant.

“ _How are you feeling?_ ”

Dragunov is aware that he doesn’t look his best, what with the sunken eyes and grey lips betraying the weariness that had sunken into him from all the fighting. He hesitated, but then mentally reminded himself that this is his father. He has nothing to hide, and he can’t even if he wanted to.

“ _I’m just tired._ ”

His father gently traces the scars that lined his face. Dragunov leans into the touch and closes his eyes.

“ _You look like you could use a good night’s sleep. Or two._ ”

He sinks into the cushions as his father checks his splinted hand. Broken bones are nothing new to Sergei – being a practitioner of Commando Sambo means he spend a lot of time breaking others’ bones. And inevitably some of his victims would fight back. He just tries to keep the injuries on himself to a minimum; he doesn’t want his father to fuss over him more than he already does.

“ _Your hand looks fine for now. Just don’t start doing anything rough to make it worse than it already is, young man._ ”

“ _…Mhm._ ”

Dragunov can feel the fatigue from fighting in the tournament and the hours-long drive he took to get home starting to catch up to him, as he slumps entirely into his father’s waiting arms. He’s safe in his own home with his father, and no call to duty for a week. It’s time for him to take a break.

The feeling of something soft underneath him was the last thing he felt before he passed out.

“ _Sleep well, Sergei._ ”

***

Dragunov wakes to the smell of food.

A glance at his watch tells him it was close to 7 PM. He had arrived home at around 5… two hours of sleep at least took the edge off of his tiredness. And at least he woke up in time for dinner.

He is still on the couch, with a thick pillow under his head and a quilt over his shoulders - his father must have put a quilt on him after he fell asleep. It smells faintly of pine and mint aftershave, and the worn fabric was soft to his bare skin.

He pulls himself to his feet and pads barefoot to the kitchen, silently glad for the thick carpet in the freezing Moscow winter.

His father is making dinner, deft hands handling a kitchen knife as if it was a surgeon’s scalpel. A pot is boiling on the stove, and Dragunov is sure he smelled something like beef stew.

It also conveniently reminded him that he’s starving. Normally he would offer to help his father with dinner, but he knows he would just get turned down because of the condition his hand is in.

“ _Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. Have a seat._ ”

Something in his heart makes a little happy dance, and he smiled. Unconsciously.

His father must have saw Dragunov smiling, because when he looks up the man is also smiling warmly at him. “ _Happiness is a good look on you, Sergei. I would tell you that you should smile more often… but I reckon the White Angel of Death didn’t get that nickname by being happy all the time._ ”

Trust his father to know him best.

Dragunov settles for a quiet scoff as his father lays out food on the table. How he has missed this – quiet home cooked meals with his father, away from the MREs and the mess hall that always seemed to have its share of troublemakers. His fellow soldiers knew better than to pick a fight with the White Angel of Death, but the noise gets on his nerves sometimes.

He has just started on his salad when his father finally speaks. “ _I saw the Iron Fist tournament on the news._ ” The Tekken tournament was all over the media, and he was sure rumors within the Spetsnaz would have kept his father up to date anyhow. “ _Heard you went for it on orders from the brass. How did it go?_ ”

He had the feeling that High Command sent him on a wild goose chase. Not that he’d mind, a fighting tournament was good to keep his skills sharp. “ _It was a bust._ ”

“ _The Mishima Zaibatsu is really good at keeping things hush-hush – you were the first agent to get into their operations that deep. I don’t think what you were looking for existed in the first place – the Devil defies all known logic of existence._ ”

His father knew of the operation – that High Command sent his son into the tournament to capture the supernatural entity known as the Devil. Not the true purpose behind the capture, however.

“ _I’m sure they have their reasons, dad._ ” He knows, of course – about that strange body the military dug up from the permafrost in Siberia. But his father didn’t need to know that Dragunov entered a fighting tournament just to satisfy some mad scientist’s curiosity.

They eat the rest of dinner in silence, content to just be in each other’s company without the need to fill the air with meaningless conversation.

And Dragunov is fine with that.

When it is time to clean up, his father tried to shoo him off to the living room – only to be rebuffed.

“ _At least let me help._ ”

His father has relented, knowing that once his son set his mind on something then he is unstoppable. Dragunov spends the next half hour drying dishes and putting them away, as his father cleans them.

Doing domestic chores is… nice. Different from his usual work. And the constant repetition in silence - with only the occasional clinking of silverware and plates - soothes his mind, already on edge from days spent fighting in the Tekken tournament.

It feels like a large weight has been lifted off his shoulder, since he stepped through the door and into the warmth of his home.

***

They spend the next two hours lounging on the couch, reading books.

Dragunov has always been more of a fighter than a scholar, though he did receive proper education prior to his enlistment into the army. His father has insisted on teaching him a great deal about the human body, which came into handy during his Commando Sambo training.

And if he happens to enjoy a novel here and there, then no one else has to know.

By the time 10 PM rolls around, he starts to feel the exhaustion – which has somewhat receded from his nap earlier – creeping on him again.

“ _You should head to bed. …Unless you want me to tuck you in._ ”

The idea was ridiculous, but it made him smile. A Spetsnaz agent and the White Angel of Death being put to bed by his own father, even if said father is a kickass combat medic.

And to be honest? He’s not completely against the idea.

“ _Good night dad._ ”

“ _Good night, Sergei. See you tomorrow._ ”

It was some of the best sleep he had gotten in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.deviantart.com/plsd/art/Dragunov-s-bare-foot-164017320) is how I imagine Dragunov looks like when he's at home. Minus the belt.


	2. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragunov's second day of vacation, with a small twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I love you too, Tenkafubu and Pancake Wheatley. :3

Consciousness comes back to Dragunov slowly in pieces.

He’s lying face down in his own bed, back at home in Moscow. His bare shoulders, uncovered by the blanket that only came up to his back, are hidden underneath the quilt he found himself in yesterday. His father must have dropped by after he fell asleep and put it over him. It’s not terribly cold - Dragunov went to bed with only sweatpants on, and the blanket left his feet and everything from his shoulders up exposed - but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

It’s quiet, save for the muted howling of the winds behind the closed window. The smell of spearmint and pine is comforting, and he lets himself drift in the limbo between wakefulness and sleep.

***

Soft, muted footsteps draw Dragunov’s attention from where he’s been dozing off.

His watch reads 6.35 AM. Must have been his father getting up to start the day.

For a while, Dragunov lies still on the bed as he listens to his father going around the house. Eventually he pulls himself up from the bed – the military enforces strict waking hours, and he didn’t intend to change even on vacation. After throwing on a shirt and heading into the bathroom to make himself presentable, he heads for the kitchen.

His father is making breakfast. At least he has proper coffee at home instead of the tastes-like-dirt thing they called coffee at base.

“ _Morning, dad._ ”

“ _Had a good night, Sergei?_ ”

“ _…Yeah._ ”

He wanders over to his father, plates in hand as he helps setting out breakfast for the both of them.

His father reaches out to smooth down his hair, which was undone from bed and still hanging down his shoulders.

“ _I’m surprised they didn’t ask you to cut your hair, Sergei._ ”

“ _It’s still within regulations. Technically._ ”

That, and drill sergeants unwilling to nag the White Angel of Death about his hair… lest they get eviscerated.

***

They were fifteen minutes into breakfast when his father drops the news on him.

“ _I got a call from an unknown number last night, after you went to sleep. It was a woman claiming to be your mother… she wants to talk to you._ ”

Through the deafening silence that follows, he is sure his father can hear the thoughts tumbling in his head. Why now, after so many years of no attempt to even find him?

_Dragunov has known for a very long time that the man he calls father is not related to him by blood. According to the story he was told and verified by records, his birth father had died in a car accident when he was a child, and his abusive ex-wife – Dragunov’s mother – had been divorced for years with no contact. When she heard of her ex-husband’s death and headed back to find her son, he had already gone through the foster care system and ended up in custody to the man who is now his father._

_Years of abuse and trauma had left young Sergei Dragunov a troubled child. He still bears the mental scars into adulthood, though the years with his adopted father had mended them over somewhat._

_Sometimes he wondered what would he become if he had never met his father._

Dragunov finally looks up from his plate, his icy blue eyes meeting his father’s soft brown.

“ _…What does she want?_ ” He has a feeling that the woman – if she is indeed his birth mother – does not have any good intentions in trying to reconnect with him. And he is not going to risk the only family that cared for him over one that does not.

“ _I do not know. She claimed to recognize you as one of the contestants in the King of Iron Fist tournament, and she got your full name right when I asked. If nothing else, I’d give her the benefit of the doubt._ ” His name was the only thing Dragunov kept when he was adopted as a memento of his birth father, who was taken from him too soon.

The Tekken tournament only referred to him as Dragunov – if the woman knows his full name, then there might be some authenticity to her claims. Maybe.

“… _I still do not know how she got her hands on my phone number, and she ignored the question when I asked. I will look into it._ ” His father’s relationship to the legendary White Angel of Death is completely unknown to most people, save for a few close friends and likely some enemy spies. Or someone managed to dig up old records of his adoption and put two and two together. “ _Don’t think about it too much. We’ll deal with it when it comes. And…_ ”

His father is in front of him, having circled around the table. Their eyes meet.

“ _…No matter what happens, you will always be my son. Remember that, Sergei Dragunov._ ”

He just wanted to hold on to his father, and never let go of the only family he has.

“ _Dad… Thank you._ ”

***

After some haggling, his father let him train in the basement for a few hours as long as he does not use his right hand too much.

The motions of Commando Sambo are practically second nature to him by now, grapples and breaks drilled into him by specialists. He can focus on winning the fight, with all the distracting thoughts fading to static in a corner of his mind. A relentless, merciless living weapon – only to fight, not to think.

His watch reads 9.58 AM. An hour or two to train would be enough.

Dragunov takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and throws the first punch.

***

When Dragunov comes back to himself, his father is leaning on the door of the basement.

“ _I thought you’d appreciate a reminder for lunch._ ” A towel comes flying towards his face, and he grabs it out of the air at the last moment. “ _Watching you fight is always a work of art._ ”

“…”

A hand lands on the two scars running down his forearm. He pauses in wiping his face down to look at his father, who is looking concerned.

“ _…I’m sorry I can’t be there for you, Sergei._ ”

Oh.

He remembered. They were torture scars – a mission to dismantle a terrorist cell gone wrong, he was captured and his crew dead. They sliced into him, burned him, tried to force information out of him… all to no avail. Until they slipped up, and he had escaped. After taking the pleasure of beating each and every one of them to death.

Dragunov arrived at base right when High Command was about to send out a rescue team. He never knew what became of the fallen brave soldiers, but he hoped they were given a proper burial.

His father had been the one to patch him up that day. He remembered shaking hands wiping off the dried blood on the torture wounds, the faint burn of antiseptic. Bandages holding him together as he reported the mission to Command, cold and professional as ever... with some help.

The wounds never quite healed right, leaving behind two scars running down his forearm. A mark of another battle he survived.

“ _Dad, it’s alright._ ”

“ _I- we thought we’ve lost you. They were arguing between sending out a rescue team or not, because they assumed you were dead along with the rest too._ ” His father is smiling now, but he can see the lingering sadness behind it. “ _I’m proud of you, son._ ”

Dragunov does not consider himself an emotional person, but at that moment his heart feels like jumping out of his chest. Instead he throws the towel over his shoulder and places his right hand on his father’s.

It was all he needed.

***

They head out for groceries in the afternoon.

His father claimed Dragunov would eat him out of house and home, and he’s inclined to agree although he knew it was just his father exaggerating. They are both elite agents in their respective fields and are paid well; they just simply do not have the time – or in his case, need – to spend the entire paycheck.

It’s also nice to be going out with his father. He may be content to spend the whole day at home, but being out and about is also good – he could use the fresh air.

In either case, he’s not saying no to some actual food.

Snow crunches under their footsteps as they walk, shadows falling in the dying November sunlight. His longcoat and hair are dusted with a layer of white, though he did not really feel the cold biting into his skin. Dragunov has elected to dress casually in a sweater and coat instead of the suit he came home to; he’s not at work and would prefer to not be recognized. As much as he can while being near-deathly pale, anyway.

“ _Enjoying your time?_ ”

His father is dressed similarly in the same way, although the old man has chosen a coat with a hood and is wearing it up, hiding most of his head from the chill. It didn’t hide his father’s brilliant smile from him, though.

And he smiles back.

***

With laundry and dinner done, Dragunov finds himself on the couch, in shirt and pants with the quilt over his shoulders. His hair, having been bound into a ponytail after breakfast, is loose again now that he is done with the day.

The event in the morning still nagged him, but he decided to let his father deal with it. No point worrying himself over something he cannot control, and if it escalates he will personally take part in it.

Otherwise? It’s been a good day, just relaxing from work and the rest of life’s burdens.

“ _Something on your mind, Sergei?_ ”

His father hands over a mug, and he takes it. Chamomile tea, with steam still wafting from the water.

The couch dips on his left as his father sits down with his own tea. Dragunov takes a sip from his mug, his eyes trained on the other man.

“ _It’s nothing._ ” He knows his father would not push him to answer anything if he’s not comfortable. But he answers anyway, because he wanted to – his father is the only person he never shied away from talking to.

“ _If there is anything that is bothering you… I’m here, Sergei. Talk to me._ ”

His father has always been a more emotional man than his son, probably due to his pursuits of saving lives rather than taking them. Dragunov generally never bothers with other people’s displays of emotions other than to predict their next move, but he has always treasured his father’s open displays of affection in their private moments – if only because they were the only times he can return the gesture.

“ _And I will be here for you, dad._ ”

And if the White Angel of Death actually cares for someone, then no one else has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I don't play Tekken so my apologies if Dragunov appears too OOC. Everything about his private life is completely from my headcanons and shouldn't be taken as canon.
> 
> [This](https://www.deviantart.com/plsd/art/D-R-A-G-U-N-O-V-178717383) is how I imagine he would dress at home in this chapter.


	3. Day Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little day out, a gift, and Dragunov realizes that talking about feelings is harder than it looks.

Dragunov can’t sleep.

Insomnia wasn’t a stranger to him. He had suffered sleepless nights for a while shortly after his deployment as a field agent – too hyped up on the adrenaline rush of combat to calm down for actual sleep. Being sleepless while on vacation though…

After spending a while tossing and turning in his bed, he concluded that trying to sleep is a lost cause and heads into the living room. Might as well try and kill some time, and he might be lucky enough to catch a few hours of rest before sunrise.

Dragunov has just settled down on the floor next to the fireplace, with his pillow and all-too-familiar quilt, when he hears muted footsteps. His father, who was somehow magically staying up at 2 AM, sits down next to him.

“ _Can’t sleep?_ ”

He just nods. At this point he is too tired to question how his father just appears out of nowhere, seemingly when he’s needed.

“ _Sergei, come here._ ”

Dragunov eases himself into his father’s side. Somehow he ended up lying half on his lap with the pillow in between and the quilt covering up to his neck, and his father leaning against the couch. It reminded him of his younger days, when he was still a scared child and being held by his father was his only comfort – normally he would not show such weakness, but he’s at home… he can afford to indulge himself for a little while.

His father gently pets his hair as he hums an old song, and Dragunov starts to sing out loud. Music had been one of the few things he was interested in – before he discovered his passion for fighting – and he still enjoys singing when he’s not busy knocking heads together.

_Расцветали яблони и груши_

_Поплыли туманы над рекой_

_Выходила на берег Катюша_

_На высокий берег на крутой_

“ _I remember the days when you were a kid. Your teachers thought you would do well in a band or orchestra, though they didn’t like how you never talk to anyone else._ ” His father is smiling, as he reminisces memories of a younger Dragunov. “ _Hearing you talk is a privilege. I wonder if they can see you now.”_

He turns his face into the soft fabric of the pillow, and closes his eyes. A faint smile crossed his lips at the idea of his former teachers finding out who he is. The little shy boy in music class, now Russia’s White Angel of Death? It would give them an aneurysm.

Dragunov lets his mind wander, finally free of any train of thoughts. The muted scent of pine and spearmint, the warmth of the fireplace, his father’s soft humming…

Before long, he was diving into the depths of sleep.

***

_Hours later…_

Dragunov wakes up.

He’d fallen asleep in front of the fireplace. _Guess that joke about the White Angel of Death being put to bed by his father was not really a joke, then._

His watch - which he had somehow forgotten to take off before his first failed attempt at sleeping - reads 8.52 AM. He wonders if it’s not too late for breakfast.

After a while of stretching out the kinks from sleeping on the floor, he heads for the kitchen.

His father is sitting in the kitchen and sipping tea. Chamomile, from the smell and looks of the pot on the table.

“ _Before you ask why I didn’t wake you, you looked like you could use the rest. Now sit._ ” Dragunov sits down on a chair before pouring himself a cup of tea. His military training screams at him for missing his usual wake up time, but his heart is silently grateful for his father letting him sleep. He knows he doesn’t get enough rest as is.

His father sets to make toast while Dragunov sips on his own tea, content to bask in the silence.

He’s halfway into his eggs when his father speaks. “ _Let me look at your hand once you are done._ ”

His right hand is eventually freed from its prison, having healed up enough to be used normally. His father still forbids him from punching people before it heals up fully, anyhow.

He can live with that. For now.

***

Later, when he was done hauling some firewood into the living room, his father invites him to a fair. At least he’s on vacation; wouldn’t hurt to have some fun when the weather is good.

And it is how Sergei Dragunov, Russia’s prized fighter and the White Angel of Death, finds himself eating cotton candy in the middle of a country fair.

Dragunov has always preferred being solitary, though he doesn’t mind the crowd despite what most people think otherwise – no company, or people that don’t bother him, means he has no need to talk. If anything crowds of strangers - oblivious to what was going on around them - were his lifesaver once or twice, when he had to go undercover or evade pursuers.

Now, chilling out on a wooden bench with cotton candy and casual clothes, he feels relaxed in the open. A bit strange from his usual life of adrenaline and action, but not unwelcome.

His father has left to get lunch for them both. Dragunov idly wonders what they would be having for lunch, as he watches the crowd around him getting on with their day while enjoying the sweet treat.

Colorful clothes and various fashion accessories laid out in stalls. Several game stalls and what looked to be a teenager trying to hit rubber ducks with a plastic gun. A comedian plying his trade to a group of children, bright smiles on their faces – and Dragunov finds himself smiling faintly at the sight.

Seeing the homeland he’s risking life and blood to fight for was more than enough to reaffirm his goal in life, to defend her until he can no longer move. A worthy thing to live for.

“ _The cavalry’s arrived. Sorry to keep you waiting._ ” And his father is back with lunch. Shawarma. Great.

“ _Dad, it’s fine._ ”

They eat lunch in amicable silence, with the crowd providing background noise.

***

After lunch, the two split up to look at the various items.

Dragunov comes across a stall selling flower vases. Swirls and patterns laid out on pottery – beautiful, yet fragile at the same time, made to bear the colors of blooming flowers within them.

The shopkeeper approaches him as he was looking through the offerings. She’s a young girl with blond hair, petite and delicate – it reminded him of that little French princess he defeated in the tournament. Lili… something? He never bothered to ask.

“ _How can I help you sir?_ ”

He pauses, before finally speaking. “ _Do you, ah… have any recommendations? I was buying a gift. For my father._ ” It’s awkward, but at least he managed to get the meaning across-

Is she _blushing_?

He has never really cared about his appearance outside of army regulations, but his fellow soldiers have called him attractive more than once despite his weirdly pale skin and a “resting bitch face” as they call it. He just hoped he didn’t have to waste more time while the girl fawned over him; he has places to go, things to do.

“ _Ah, yes! I know just the right one for it – please follow me!_ ”

That took long enough.

At long last – after a seemingly long eternity of picking through the various selections and getting the thing wrapped - he got his gift. An elegant handmade vase with black and blue paintings, and gold outline. It reminds him of the dawn after a long night… and his father. The one good person he’d ever had in his life, after a long and terrible childhood.

The thing costed him a pretty penny, but it’s not like he’s going to care about the dent it makes in his wallet. As long as it makes his father happy, then it’s worth it.

Dragunov hums to himself as he returns to their meeting point.

It turned out that his father also bought him a gift – a navy blue tie, with gold spiraling highlights.

“ _Thought you could use a new one with all the fighting you’ve been doing lately. Figures you’re getting bored of red, so I picked blue._ ”

The surprise, then smile on the man’s face when presented with the flower vase is priceless. Dragunov tried his best to commit it to memory – kept safe in a special corner of his heart.

A small bouquet of blooming flowers sat on their dining table that night, adding colors to the small home.

***

When father and son sit down for tea and books that night, Dragunov finally voices something that has been on his mind for quite a while. “ _Dad…_ ”

“ _Something you want to talk about, Sergei?_ ”

“ _I…_ ”

Come on, Sergei Dragunov; you’re the White Angel of Death, you fought men and gods and came out alive, you can do this!

Before he could start to panic, Dragunov shoves it down. “ _…Thank you dad. For everything._ ”

It was… harder than he thought. His hands are clutching their copy of _Crime and Punishment_ so hard, he thought it might rip apart in his hands if he moved wrong.

The White Angel of Death doesn’t panic, except when feelings are concerned. Apparently he has spent so long being unfeeling to his actions, that having to discuss his feelings feels like upending his insides.

Until a hand lays itself on his own and loosens his death grip on the book.

“ _Come here._ ” And he finds himself being hugged. It’s a bit awkward because both of them are sitting on the couch, but the gesture is more than comforting. “ _You stayed this far with me, when no one else would. That is more than what I can ask of you, my child. Thank you for being in my life Sergei…_ ”

And Sergei Dragunov is not going to leave any time soon. Not when he still has something to protect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BFF suggested that the song Dragunov hums as part of his outro in 6 and 7 might be [Katyusha](https://www.marxists.org/history/ussr/sounds/lyrics/katyusha.htm), a popular Russian classic song.
> 
> Kudos and comments make me happy. o3o Let me know what you think!


	4. Day Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragunov gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just an excuse to write Dragunov drunk. :D

_03:28_

_-people escaping a prison, leaving him behind-_

 

“…”

_-a Mishima Zaibatsu arena, Kazuya ordering them to fight to the death-_

_-a weapon, somehow familiar yet not, in his hands-_

 

Dragunov’s fingers clawing against the covers-

_-Fury disarming him-_

_-barbed chains soaked with his own blood-_

 

He wakes up, heart racing and gasping for breath.

…No, he’s not in a fight. He’s in his own bed, in his home. As far away from Japan – and the Mishima Zaibatsu – as possible.

Whatever that happened, it was definitely not real… though it _felt_ real – he could still feel the cold metal, his hands slipping on the blood soaked chain as it choked the life out of him-

Dragunov wills his hands to untangle from the covers. The darkness and silence are helping to ease his nerves, even as he breathes in the chilly air.

He had long accepted that dying during his line of work is a very real possibility, and is even expected to if it means guaranteeing the success of the mission. Dragunov has no intentions of doing that if he can avoid it, however; it would be a waste of his talents… and he did not want to see his father mourning him. Spetsnaz training had more or less numbed him to emotions, though he is not completely emotionless; he is just very good at reserving what little feelings he has for those he cared about.

A fear of death is something he still has – his instructor in the army had taught them to utilize their fear of death as self-preservation, instead of a weakness. They do not need soldiers that throw themselves into the line of fire out of reckless courage or glory seeking; after all highly trained soldiers are few and far between, and too valuable to lose.

A quick glance at his watch shows it is somewhere around three in the morning.

He sighs, before turning on his side and closes his eyes. Might as well try and get some more sleep until sunrise; lingering on useless thoughts do nothing for him.

***

_04:50_

Dragunov stirs as consciousness slowly creeps into his mind, chasing away the veil of sleep.

…♪…♫…♬…

Noise… and there is someone at his bedside-

_Someone is touching him-_

He is out of bed and grabbing the assailant before he had a chance to register who it was; defensive reflexes kicking in and demanding him deal with the possible threat before his own head is on a platter.

He has the attacker in a chokehold before he realizes whoever they are isn’t fighting back.

If it was someone out for his blood, wouldn’t they be trying to get out of his hold by now?

It was then that his sleepy brain reminded him that he’s at home – no threats to be seen here - and he squints his sleep-addled eyes to his father. Who is being totally calm for some reason despite being in a chokehold, by his very own son no less.

Maybe he’s just used to soldiers trying to jump him out of reflex?

“ _Good morning, angel._ ”

“ _…Mhm…_ ”

He’s tired. What sleep he had after being woken up by the nightmare was restless, and a tired Dragunov is an angry Dragunov. Most people learned to steer clear of Dragunov when he’s in a bad mood – not his father, obviously.

“ _Bad night?_ ”

Somehow the two managed to sit down on the bed, Dragunov burying his face in his father’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and lets himself relax as adrenaline dies down and the fight goes out of him. “ _…Yeah._ ”

Dragunov doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he had succeeded. Instead he stays there, just enjoying the feeling of fingers in his hair and the familiar scent of his father’s aftershave, letting the feelings ground him to reality.

It’s quiet, save for the soft sounds of wind chimes somewhere in the distance and their slow, quiet breathing.

His mind settles down as the last of the haunting visage slips away.

***

_05:45_

Dragunov eventually goes to start the day, not too fond of going back to sleep after what happened. His father had suggested they stayed in – the snow is getting heavier, and he doubted his son would be in the mood to go anywhere.

Not that he’d mind.

The muted sound of howling winds outside the window are strangely calming, Dragunov mused as he chews on a slice of apple. He has always been more comfortable in the snow and ice of Russia than the tropical of Japan.

Long ago, during his Spetsnaz training, Dragunov learned how to restrain his emotions. Put them behind mental walls until only tactical thoughts relevant to the mission remained. In battle, the White Angel of Death would cut a wide swath through his enemies - with a single-minded focus undisturbed by emotions, sharp as a honed blade. His fellow soldiers have commented more than once on his seemingly cold as ice disposition, and he didn’t care. It served him well enough in more than one occasion.

Though, in the warmth of his home, the wall holding back his feelings thaws. The White Angel of Death takes its leave, leaving behind the man known as Sergei Dragunov – loyal soldier and dutiful son. And unbeknownst to most people, a sweet, gentle if somewhat cocky guy.

It won’t last long, but it’s long enough for the one person that truly matters.

After briefly heading out to make sure his car didn’t get buried in snow, he heads into the living room.

His father is currently engrossed in some sort of medical text. Papers covered almost every inch of the coffee table, with a lone mug putting a spot of color on the white. He had to stifle a laugh at the “world’s okayest dad” inscribed on the side of the mug – it had caught his eye during a mission to America, and he thought it would make a good gag gift.

“ _You’re working. On vacation._ ”

The combat medic raises an eyebrow at his son, humor dancing in his eyes. “ _You’re not the only one that gets bored, Sergei. Come here._ ”

Dragunov detours into his room to get his quilt and pillow, before (totally not ungracefully) plopping himself on to the couch. Somehow he managed to squish himself into the couch, with his head in his father’s lap and feet on the armrest. Not the most comfortable of positions, but he’d had worse.

A gentle hand weaves through his hair, and he turns his face into the fabric of his pillow.

“ _Want to go out tonight? Weather forecast says snow is letting up, so I figure it is safe to head out in the evening once they clear the streets. Hit up a bar… it’s been a while since we had a drink together.”_

He isn’t much for alcohol – his father had always been the drinker between the two of them. The idea, though, did sound appealing… especially with the bad news he’d gotten the day prior. If he was on duty, he might have refused; but he’s on vacation.

“ _I’m in._ ”

His father looks down at him, and Dragunov feels warmth bubbling somewhere in the depths of his buried emotions as he meets his father’s eyes. “ _I was afraid you’d say no to be honest. It’s fine if you don’t want to go, we can do something else._ ”

“ _I don’t mind. Really._ ”

He’s smiling faintly, and it seemed to convince his father. “ _Okay. We leave at 0600, get something for dinner then head to this place downtown. They said it’s one of the best._ ”

His father turns back to whatever he was reading, as Dragunov shifts into a more comfortable position. The gentle petting in his hair resumes, and he closes his eyes.

For now, he’s just going to stay there and enjoy some quiet time.

 

_(his father is much more than an “okayest dad”, but Dragunov is sure he doesn’t need to say that.)_

***

_20:15_

Dragunov downs another vodka shot as he stares at nothing in particular.

The night had been… eventful, for a start. A woman had been yelling about customer service when they arrived at the restaurant, and tried to take their reserved table; his father had stared her down and calmly told her that she was taking a soldier’s seat. She had beaten a quick retreat out of the place after that.

Dinner was good, at least. He’s no food critic, but he can always appreciate a good steak.

The bar his father had chosen is a large, quiet establishment that would fit in with an upper class neighborhood. He can understand the appeal; crowded, noisy places are good for undercover work, but not for actual vacation.

They have chosen a table in the corner. From there, Dragunov can have full view of the bar while keeping his back to the wall. He knows it is unlikely for him to get into any sort of trouble now, but habits are hard to break.

The bartender hadn’t recognized them, apparently uninterested in the King of Iron Fist tournament. His father had just ordered their drink and paid, preferring to keep his son away from any possible public attention – he knows about Dragunov’s distaste for the spotlight when it is not required for the mission.

A bottle of vodka is on the table, already half empty.

His father throws back his own shot and sets the glass on the table. “ _Mikhail got some good taste for drinks, at least. It’s not too bad here._ ”

It is more or less quiet, with only hushed conversations among some of the patrons. A flat TV screen on the wall is playing some sort of football match, and most of the bar’s occupants have their attention on it.

It’s relaxing, and the alcohol is really helping in that department.

And he lets his concerns be swept away.

***

_22:05_

He’s getting lightheaded. Dragunov had never been smashed, he has no idea what he would do if his self-control is shot. He could only hope that his father stops him if he gets into anything foolish; High Command did not need to know that their prized soldier gets into trouble because he’s drunk, after all.

“ _Getting drunk already? I was kind of expecting you to have higher tolerance… given whatever they did to you in there.”_

It was a common joke that Dragunov isn’t human, or at least not wholly – what with the seemingly superhuman strength and stamina he possesses. High Command denied any involvement in human experimentation, though it has not stopped the rumors of Sergei Dragunov being a super soldier from a top secret project.

In reality, there was nothing of the sorts; just a lot of intensive training and willpower inherited from an equally stubborn father, but he finds it humorous every time someone brings up what is basically an urban legend now.

“ _You know full well they didn’t do anything to me out of the norm, dad.”_

“ _Regardless, someone your size would have quite a bit of trouble getting drunk.”_ His father stands up, with only a slight tint to his cheeks any hint that he’s been drinking at all.

Dragunov feels a fleeting flash of envy, as he also rises to his feet… and nearly stumbled over. He’s more influenced than he thought. “ _You’re the one drinking out of the two of us.”_

“ _Come on, let’s get home. Can’t have you doing something to get Command on your ass the next day, hm?”_

***

_23:30_

His father had wisely decided to call a taxi, not wanting to risk driving under influence.

Dragunov is leaning heavily on his father as they navigated into the house, clearly not used to the feeling of being drunk off his ass. He unceremoniously flopped on his bed when they arrived at his bedroom.

“ _At least take your clothes off, you won’t want to sleep in them._ ”

He just wants to sleep before his drunken self started talking about any more embarrassing stuff, but his father is there helping him strip out of his coat and shirt. He had somehow managed to get his boots off, but he can’t remember _where_ he had left them.

“ _…Hey, dad?_ ”

“ _I’m listening._ ” His father finally finishes his colossal task of getting his son out of his clothes, and is about to leave when the question stopped him.

“ _...I wish I could be around you more…what good is a son that never sees his family?...”_

Outside of short vacations and mandated medbay visits, they practically never see each other while on duty. Both of them made peace with the fact that their duty comes first, but Dragunov had never really complained about it to anyone else.

Until today, at least. Dragunov can be …interesting… when he’s drunk.

“ _Sergei, it’s alright. I know.”_

No response. It seems that sleep has finally pulled him under.

His father pulls the quilt over his son’s shoulder, before sitting down and gently runs a hand through the soft dark hair. Dragunov may not be his flesh and blood, but the bond they have is far stronger than that.

“Y _ou will be the death of me one day, Sergei.”_

“ _...I love you too dad.”_

Before his father can respond, Dragunov settles back down into sleep.

The older man smiles at the seemingly nonsense mumbling from his son, before heading back to his own room to retire for the night.

_Everything is going to be fine._


	5. Day Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things didn't go well for Dragunov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter might be subjected to more changes once I'm no longer sleep deprived. Stay tuned!

Dragunov groans.

There’s a headache pounding at the back of his head, and the morning light illuminating the windows feels like ice picks stabbing his brain.

Hangovers suck. Not that he’d regret going out drinking the night before.

Maybe tone it back a little next time.

…If there is a next time. Maybe in a couple years, when both of them are on leave together someday.

***

The door to his room opens with a click, and his father eases himself inside. He winces briefly at the light from the open door, before it thankfully gets quickly closed again.

Light footsteps at his bedside, then the bed dips. A shadow casts itself over his face, blocking out the light from his burning eyes, and he’s silently grateful for it.

A cool hand lays on his forehead, and he turns into the touch.

Dragunov was expecting his father to ask about his problem, maybe even tease him about his low tolerance to alcohol. His memory of last night was spotty, to put it lightly; he wasn’t sure if he said anything stupid after they left the bar and he was blackout drunk. Hopefully nothing too important or embarrassing, God knows his father would hold it over his head until one of them dies.

But there were no questions. No teasing. Just silence, as he lies curled up in a miserable ball on his bed and his father lightly petting his hair.

It’s… nice. The headache relentlessly torturing him since waking up has started to recede, leaving behind a dull aching that is much more manageable. Hell, he might be even functional after getting some painkillers and food into him.

Later. Just… not now. Not when he’s comfortable like this.

Dragunov closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of fingers combing through his hair, trying to distance himself from the dull pain in his head.

Before long, he has started to doze off.

***

When he wakes up a second time, it is dark. The curtains have been pulled over his window, bathing his room in dimmed twilight.

The headache is mostly gone, though some of it still knocks on his brain. If he focuses on other things in the environment - the feeling of the bed cover, the quilt on his bare shoulders, the warmed up air in his bedroom – he can keep his mind off the pain and let him move to start his day.

He turns to his side tentatively, then pulls himself up to his feet when there’s no sign of more pain or nausea waiting to ambush him. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since his father dropped by to check on him but judging from the light and what little he remembered before falling back asleep, it must have been a few hours since then.

There’s a glass of water and some painkillers at his bedside, and he downs them before heading out to the kitchen. He briefly contemplates the thought of getting dressed in more than just sweatpants before leaving, though it quickly gets shoved into a corner; his father had seen him in all stages of undress and then some, there’s nothing for him to care about anymore.

“ _Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Good to see you up and about._ ”

He just nods, before sitting down on a chair and starts making his way through breakfast.

There’s a hand tapping gently on his shoulder, and he just nods again in response. He’s not interested in talking – not before he has breakfast and what remained of the hangover let up.

And then the feeling of fingers and a comb working on his messy hair.

Dragunov finds himself smiling even as he chews on a piece of bacon.

_Growing up with an abusive mother and an absent father forced Dragunov to learn how to take care of himself early. To be strong, and not show weaknesses to the world. Weakness means defeat._

_Even then, some little part of him still craved the feeling of being fussed on by a parent. He was about to stop trying by the time of his parents’ divorce, having realized that his mother resented him and will never give him the care he so desperately wanted._

_After his adoption, it was just him and his adopted father. But the man cared for him more than anyone else in his life, even after he was grown up and became Russia’s deadliest agent._

_Truth be told, he doesn’t like being taken care of by someone else – it makes him feel powerless, helpless. But he doesn’t mind when it’s his father, in the comforts of their own home. Where he doesn’t have to put on a stone cold face and can_ feel _things that he doesn’t let himself otherwise_.

He gets knocked out of his brief reverie at his father’s voice.

“ _…Sergei? Are you listening?_ ”

“ _Ah… yes?_ ”

Is that… apprehension? He can see the tension clearly on his father’s face, as if the man is conflicted about something. A cold feeling crawls up his chest and crowds out the fuzzy warmth.

He could only hope it was not about something bad that happened during his absence from duty.

“… _Your mother asked to meet you_.”

“ _When_?” Surprising. Most of his memories of his birth family had largely faded, but he still remembered the abuse she inflicted on him. Would she remember it herself? The child she chose to resent and abandon?

What does she want with him now?

If his father was surprised at the quick response, he didn’t show any signs of it. “ _This afternoon. Said she wanted a family reunion_.”

He’s conflicted.

On one hand, he wanted to reach out to what’s left of his family… to seek that love he was denied years ago. But then it had been years since their separation, and he lacked any sort of emotional bond that would justify a family reunion – the deep gouged scars within his psyche agreed with it.

“… _I don’t know_.”

He buries his face in his hands. This isn’t some issue he can just beat the crap out of with his fists; emotions had never been his strong forte, and he avoided any sort of possible situation involving feelings he cannot afford to have. Good for a soldier, bad for a person.

And he hates the situation his mother had put him in. It feels wrong to reject her, but at the same time he didn’t want her back… not after all the torment he suffered at her hands.

Why can’t she just leave him alone?

“ _Sergei. Relax._ ”

Dragunov is pulled into a hug. He breathes in the soft scent of pine and spearmint aftershave.

“ _It’s okay if you don’t want to go. I’ll let her know you can’t make it._ ”

It’s an appealing thought, but…

“… _Dad, what would you do_?”

He trusts his father to make the right decision when he cannot.

His father is quiet for a while, and Dragunov wondered if he did the wrong thing-

“ _I would go._ ”

Not something he had expected from his father; he thought the man would refuse outright. “ _Why_?”

“ _For closure. So you do not regret it if you have to cut her off_.” His father pulls back, though he didn’t break eye contact. “ _I know what she did to you, even if I wasn’t there for it. And I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. But… It’s better to let the wound drain before you can patch it up, rather than let it fester._ ”

“ _…And if she doesn’t take no for an answer?”_

 _“Then she’ll have to accept that. She lost any right she had on you years ago.”_ His father brushes back a strand of hair on his forehead, and Dragunov unconsciously leans into the touch. “ _I’ll come with you.”_

Something eases inside of his chest. He has a choice now; and he will have his father’s support. He’s not going into this alone.

“… _Thank you.”_

***

They had decided to come to the meeting place a couple hours early, scout out the area for any potential threat. Not that Raven or some other assassin would suddenly decide to show up to kick his ass, but habits are hard to break.

And he wanted to avoid any possible surprise.

Dragunov had chosen to dress in a thick coat with a hood, complete with a scarf hiding half of his face; he prefers to not get recognized today. His father, on the other hand, had gone for a black trench coat over a formal shirt and tie. Apparently, the woman that is his mother doesn’t know the face of the man that adopted her son, and he intended to keep it that way until they meet. If it would even happen.

The meeting is in a town square, with wide open sky and shoppers milling throughout. Possible clear shot for a sniper, though he can keep to the buildings and crowds to avoid that. The crowd makes it easy to blend in… but no one had ever gotten the jump on him in years. Unless he’s distracted. And if someone wanted to try a direct assault, then he would be glad to have some live practice.

His father leans in and quietly whispers to him, eyes still trained on a group of people in front. “ _Doesn’t seem to be anything suspicious. I would keep an eye out though, just in case this is a trap._ ”

He had to agree with that. High Command would not appreciate news of dead civilians out of an assassination attempt on a Spetsnaz agent, one of their best medics, or both.

Having deemed the area sufficiently secure, the two head into a nearby restaurant for lunch.

Dragunov is halfway through a tuna sandwich, lost in thought when he feels a hand gently closing on his forearm. He managed not to flinch – but only just - before looking up at his father’s concerned face.

“ _Are you alright?_ ”

He’s not.

Keeping his emotions suppressed is practically second nature to him now, from years of emotional abuse and reinforced by his training. And yet… his mind is a turbulent storm of long-repressed emotions, forcibly dug up by the circumstances he had found himself in. There is something lurking and unsettling him from within, and yet he cannot pinpoint what _exactly it is_.

All of this is uncharted territory – he has no idea what he should be doing.

And he hates it.

Sergei Dragunov does not accept things that can lead to failure, including his own weakness.

“… _I’m just nervous._ ”

His father doesn’t seem to buy it. He reaches out to his father-

“… _what do you think_?”

 _That voice_ sends a chill through his gut.

It has been years, but he had never quite forgotten his mother’s voice. Not when she screamed at him for hours on end, seeking to torment him for being the child she never wanted. And even though the voice is rougher with age, he is pretty sure it belongs to his mother.

_What a coincidence. We are supposed to meet her later, and here we are… spectators to her in the middle of a restaurant._

Seeing his son freezing in place, his father looks up and at something over Dragunov’s shoulder before turning back to him and meeting his son’s eyes with his own. There is something like _recognition_ in his eyes, and he doesn’t like it.

The medic shakes his head.

No interactions, then. Not now.

Instead, they listen. Gathering intel, like any good soldier would do.

“ _Are you sure on this Mom? I heard he’s not a nice guy.”_

_“I’m sure he missed me, it’s been years since we last saw each other.”_

_“I still think that asking him to come back is too much. He works for the government, for God’s sake! This is a stupid idea.”_

“ _Hush, honey. We just need to ask him to come home with us, then it’s just a matter of time to get him to help his share of the finances.”_

_“You make it sound so easy. Doesn’t he still have other family?”_

_“Blood is thicker than water, honey. Adopted parents are not real parents.”_

_“And stepparents are?”_

The younger woman is still talking, but Dragunov tunes her out.

_Is that what she thinks of me?_

Uncertainly turns to sadness, then anger.

He had hoped that his mother genuinely saw the errors of her ways and wanted to mend their relationship. But instead, it was all a ploy to make him into a cash cow.

She never cared for him as a son, a child of her flesh and blood. Only as a tool to be used.

If he was not in public, he would have beaten the crap out of her right there and now, let her feel the pain she inflicted on him all those years ago-

“ _Sergei. Sergei, take it easy._ ”

Realization slams into him. He’s letting his emotions get the best of him, clouding his judgement-

His father’s hand is on his wrist, keeping him in place. He can break out any time he wanted – but he chooses to yield, and instead focuses on putting his emotions away. One at a time.

_Remember your training._

Inhale, then exhale. Let it go, don’t hold on to it.

 The turbulent storm quiets down and dissipates, giving him clarity of thought once again. Calm, and something else – _acceptance_ – floods his mind.

“ _Sergei, are you with me?_ ”

“ _I’m here._ ”

He’d almost lost it. A long time of keeping his emotions to a minimum, and it was so _intense_ when he finally feels it. He quickly looks around; except for his father, no one was more the wiser to his almost-meltdown.

“ _I didn’t think she would be so …blatant… in public.”_ His father looks down, sadness in his gaze. “ _I’m sorry for bringing you into this, Sergei. I should have told her to back off when she asked._ ”

“ _It’s nothing._ ” His father is not at fault; he has never met his mother, and clearly expected too much for her to be a good parent. “ _You were right dad… at least I know she is not worth it._ ”

He goes back to finishing his forgotten sandwich, while his father waves down a waitress for dessert.

They have intel. Now it is a matter of planning on how to deal with the situation.

***

1500 rolls around, with father and son waiting at the water fountain.

The sunlight is warm on his skin, and a breeze gently teases at his hair.

He can barely feel it.

Dragunov has taken off his scarf and the hood of his coat. He wanted her to see the son she tormented one last time, before he cuts her off and out of his life for good.

Out of the edge of his vision, he saw two figures. His mother – now that she’s facing him, he could recognize her features enough to confirm her identity - and another younger woman. His stepsister, if he had to guess. From whoever unfortunate enough to shack up with her after his father left – she bears no resemblance to himself or his mother, so she’s probably not of her blood.

He glances at his father and gets a nod in return. _Reassurance._

When they finally arrived, the older woman is the first to speak. The younger girl sizes him down before taking her place next to her mother.

“ _It is good to see you again, Dragunov_.”

Of course, she cannot even try to put up a show of being interested in the child she abandoned.

He feels a pang of anger and envy at the younger sister that is clearly mom’s favorite, but he shoves it down. _Stay focused. Be professional._

_“Mother.”_

_“What’s with the sad face? Don’t you miss your mom?”_

He wants to scream in her face. _No, I don’t. Not your bullshit excuses and punishments you thought up to torment me as a child, because I was not the child you wanted._

But he didn’t.

Instead, he merely straightens himself while keeping a respectable distance between himself and her. He doesn’t trust himself to not resort to violence if she touched him in any way, and it’s not worth the paperwork to High Command explaining how he ended up kicking the crap out of a civilian.

“ _What do you want?”_

If she is annoyed at him ignoring her attempts to be friendly, she hides it well. “ _I thought you would be interested in coming back home, visiting your sister-“_

_“No.”_

Visible surprise blooms on her face. “ _What do you mean?”_

 _“You were never there for me, only for father’s money.”_ He could feel the anger he had buried starting to resurface again; this woman’s mere presence brings out the worst in him. His hands clench into fists in an attempt to stop himself from getting physical. “ _You didn’t care about me then. What makes you think you can just come back into my life?”_

The daughter is silent, mouth hanging open with each word Dragunov speaks. He wasn’t surprised if this was the first time she knew about what was done to him as a kid; his mother just had to make herself the victim to gain sympathy from her next child.

His mother is looking at anywhere but him, her face twitching with some indecipherable emotion between embarrassment and anger. She finally speaks up after a long minute. “ _Blood is thicker than water, Sergei. We are family, and family are supposed to help each other.”_

Dragunov wanted to laugh at the irony.

He did not. Instead, he continues on.

“ _You used father’s money for yourself. You thought I was a burden,”_ the result of accidentally eavesdropping on an argument between his parents “ _a weirdo, an idiot. That I did not deserve your love, or attention. Only punishments.”_ His voice breaks a little. Talking about his painful childhood had never been easy, even to the one man he trusts with his life. “ _You were never there when I needed your help. Why are you talking about family_ now?”

Silence.

He could see the horror written on the face of the daughter. She had expected a long lost brother; she had definitely not expected to know that her mother was an abuser.

His mother’s face turns red, and the woman hisses at him. “ _Fine! Have it your way, since your own blood didn’t matter more than a stranger!”_ She starts faking tears as she walks away, her daughter in tow. “ _My only son abandoned me! What is the point of having children if they didn’t care about you!”_

Dragunov is tired.

The whole thing is costing him more patience than what he has, and if she doesn’t leave soon he’s going to snap – and then she would know why he is called the White Angel of Death, first hand.

But before he could make a snappy – or angry - comeback, his father finally speaks up. “ _Leave, and do not come back. Enjoy your life knowing that the child you abused wanted nothing to do with you.”_

His father didn’t wait for a reply, instead gently placing a hand on his son’s arm and guides him away. “ _We’re done here. Let’s go home.”_

***

After the encounter with his mother, his father had taken him home and ordered food for the two of them. He’s lying on the couch with his head in his father’s lap, as he stares into nothing in particular -Dragunov has been in a state of shock ever since the departure, his mind swarmed with emotions that he had yet to process properly.

Pain at having his childhood trauma ripped open again, hatred for his mother, and grief at losing what was left of the motherly love he had always wanted.

He didn’t regret blowing up at Dragunov’s birth mother. The woman only viewed his son as a tool to be used – she is beyond saving, and would only cause pain. He can take an insult to his position as an adoptive parent… but this woman made his blood boil. Both from being manipulative and a hypocrite.

_The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb._

His father runs a gentle hand through his son’s hair.

Time will mend or soothe over wounds – and he can wait. Should his help be required to deal with the events that happened today? He would be glad to give it.

_You cannot choose who you are related to, but you can choose who you want to be with._


	6. Day Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergei has a busy day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see you :noms Cola:

_A wide street covered with snow. Sharp, icy winds whipping his face._

_A mansion he hasn’t seen for more than a decade._

_He knows this place._

_His childhood home. Before everything went wrong. Or horribly right._

_“Come on Sergei, let’s go!”_

_A man is standing in the snow, in front of the pine trees lining the street. He couldn’t see the person clearly, but..._

_His voice stirs something in Dragunov’s heart. Feelings long buried and forgotten, in the wake of his death._

_His birth father._

_“Dad, I’m coming!”_

_He reaches out to his father-_

_-and he can’t move. Some invisible force is holding him back, even as he struggled to reach the other man. Snow dusts his hands, the sleeves of his military dress coat, the cold soaking through the fabric-_

_Bright lights down the streets, loud rumbling noises. Something is rushing at them, fast._

_Horror sets in. Then despair._

_“Dad!”_

_His father isn’t hearing him. He walks into the streets towards Dragunov, hand stretched towards his son. This close, Dragunov can see his face... his adopted father’s face-_

_He wanted to scream, but his voice was lost._

_Not him too, please-_

_Collision._

_Everything goes black._

***

Consciousness slams into Dragunov like a bucket of ice water.

Something prickles at the corner of his eyes. He wipes a hand over his face, and his fingers come away wet.

He hasn’t shed tears since he was thirteen, after having lost his birth father in a car accident. What was left of his tears had long since dried up from the trauma he had suffered.

Or so he thought.

His encounter with his mother had made him more emotional than he usually is. Not a good thing usually, but he still has time to put himself together before he must return to duty.

It’s snowing outside.

He lies in bed – he didn’t remember how he got into bed last night, having been in shock after the afternoon – and listens to the winds whipping on the closed window.

_His father always seemed to have a faint scent of pine and spearmint hanging around him. A rare brand of aftershave, plus what he’d guess is the soap used to cover up the smell of blood._

_Dragunov has always found the scent comforting. His old family home had a line of pines in front, and he used to play in the spiky leaves – when he was allowed to. The silence of the trees was a welcoming change to the constant screaming of his mother._

_He never came back to where the mansion used to be – his memories of the place were filled with both happiness with his father, and pain with his mother – but the place was very likely demolished and replaced with a new building by now, more than a decade later._

_At some point, the memory of pine, spearmint and snow has embedded itself into his mind as the definition of “home”. He could not pinpoint an exact time, but perhaps it was that moment when he realized his father is here to stay and take care of him, that he was alone no longer._

Lost in thought, Dragunov didn’t notice the shadow stepping into his room.

“ _Sergei._ ”

He snaps back to alertness.

His father is sitting on the side of his bed. Dragunov feels a warm touch tracing his face gently, and at that moment he wished he could take the concern on his father’s face away.

“ _I’m sorry, Sergei. I really am… I should not have told you to go._ ”

…Does his father still think he’s mad?

In retrospect, it makes sense. Dragunov doesn’t make a habit of showing emotions, and he hasn’t explicitly told his father that he isn’t mad at him for encouraging to see his mother. It had only solidified his resolve to stay away from her – forever, knowing that she doesn’t see him as a son... never will.

The only family that matters to him is right here, next to him.

He reaches up and gently pulls on his father’s shoulder. His father is briefly confused, before getting what his son wants and eases himself down on the bed; Dragunov wraps his arms around his father’s shoulders and pulls him in close, nesting his solid form against his father’s broad frame.

This reminds him of when his father - a year or two after his adoption - would hold him as he slept, plagued with nightmares of abuse at the hands of his mother. Even after he grew up and became the White Angel of Death, he still finds comfort in his father’s embrace; it had gotten him through so much physical pain he suffered in the line of duty, and held his sanity together much better than any sort of therapy offered to him.

The quilt is pulled over his shoulders. Soft fabric and warmth against his bare skin.

“ _I’m not mad at you. She’s a lost cause… now I know that.”_

Dragunov buries his face into his father’s shoulder, feeling fingers combing gently through his hair. There’s a very faint pine scent tickling his nose, and he sighs in contentment.

“ _Sergei… Thank you.”_

Message sent and received, loud and clear.

He closes his eyes and bask in the comforting closeness.

He has always found expressing emotions through facial expressions and speech difficult. Whether it was something he was born with, or a result of the childhood abuse he suffered, Dragunov does not know. Actions – especially tactile motions – have always been his preferred way of expressing his feelings, though his affections are reserved for a precious few.

The White Angel of Death does not have emotions.

Sergei Dragunov does, however little of them there are.

***

He found himself dozing off for a bit before finally getting up to start the day.

His head is no longer a scrambled mess of emotions, though it will take some time for him to fully sort out and put the events behind him.

The kitchen smells of fresh pizza and tea. A still-warm seafood pizza is sitting on the table, with his father making his way through one slice.

Dragunov swipes a slice for himself as he sits down on a chair.

“ _You ok?”_

_“Yeah.”_

In time. Sitting in one place and thinking about it won’t help him process it any faster.

He starts munching on the slice of pizza, enjoying the taste of lobster and crab over cheese. Might as well enjoy himself before he goes back to the usual army rations that taste like nothing.

A cup of steaming tea is nudged in front of him.

“ _One more day._ ”

“ _Mhm._ ”

“ _Time flies by so fast._ ”

He would love to spend more time with family and he is sure his father returns the sentiment, but duty calls. Russia needs their skills. They can’t really afford to be away any longer than what they already scheduled for.

“ _What do you want to do?_ ”

He’s… not sure. Except for the fiasco with his mother, he’s pretty satisfied of his time at home so far. At this point he doesn’t really care about what they do, as long as they’re doing it together. “ _I don’t know._ ”

His father pauses, thinking, before resuming the conversation. “ _Do you… want to see Binah?_ ”

Binah? Now that’s a name he hasn’t heard in a while.

She was Spetsnaz’s resident Commando Sambo specialist before he joined, and one of his father’s few personal friends. The man took her in after she got kicked out of her home as a teenager – for being a lesbian, no less – and she lived with his father until she left to become a Spetsnaz agent.

She was there when he was adopted and taught him his life’s passion of Sambo. Until the day she suffered brain damage during a mission gone wrong and ended up on life support.

He still remembers the day they let her go, six years ago. Vividly as if it just happened yesterday.

Binah was the first of many lost friends. And to him, a better mother figure than his own birth mother ever was.

“ _Wasn’t she cremated?_ ” Her ashes are kept on his father’s bookshelf, next to a framed photo of her. He has a copy of the same photo in his wallet, and she was mistaken for a girlfriend or wife more than once – though a story of a lost family member usually disinterested them quickly. Nowadays, no one had the courage to ask.

“ _Spetsnaz decided to put her name on a memorial for all their fallen agents, couple months ago. Binah got the front seat, as always._ ”

“ _Sounds good._ ”

***

They arrive at the memorial sometime after 1000.

The area was originally a nature park before Spetsnaz has decided to convert the area into their own graveyard. Headstones bearing the names of fallen agents – whose bodies were never found or buried elsewhere – are scattered within the lush green of pines and other trees. An appropriately peaceful resting place for people that dedicated their lives to safeguarding Russia.

A guard steps out in front of the gate as the car pulls up. “ _This area is off limits to civilians! Identify yourself!_ ”

Dragunov has chosen to step out of the car, and the guard’s expression changes as recognition kicked in and the man salutes. “… _Captain Dragunov, sir!_ ” He quickly unlocks the gate, and Dragunov nods at the guard before he heads back into his father’s car and they head into the memorial park.

“ _Someone is popular in the workplace, I see._ ”

He just snorts in lieu of an answer. The entirety of Spetsnaz know the face of the White Angel of Death,  and it’s not hard to get what he wants with his reputation, though he is careful to not abuse it.

The memorial – more like a bunch of giant headstones to be appropriate – stands tall in the sunlight of Moscow. It’s quiet, with no one else to bother them.

He never knew Binah’s real name – she had insisted on not using it, because it reminds her of the family that rejected her. So he just follows his father as the man walks towards one of the larger headstones surrounded by pines and flowers.

From the size and the few names inscribed on the headstone, it appears to be a memorial dedicated to the elite of Spetsnaz. The best few. Binah would fit right in it.

His father traces his fingers on a name carved into the marble. Dragunov silently commits the name to memory – one little thing of her he finally knew.

_In memory of Anastasia Ivanova_

_Daughter, friend, comrade_

He turns towards his father, only to see a deep expression of sadness on the man’s face.

“ _Binah… I am so sorry._ ”

It was not something he had expected to hear.

Dragunov doesn’t know what to say, but his father must have noticed his confused face because the man continues on. “ _…I wasn’t there when she needed me… Did you know that her brain damage would have been less if she received surgery in time? I could have saved her from death._ ”

He was young then; just accepted to Spetsnaz. He had wanted to let her know, only to come back to her comatose and hanging on the edge. Letting her go was for the best – for her and for them. But he never realized until now that his father still blames himself for Binah’s death after all those years.

A long sigh. “ _They didn’t dare to work on her. When I arrived, she was already halfway to braindead. Did I… did I just prolong her suffering? Trying to save her and failing?_ ”

“ _Dad… you tried your best._ ” He wanted to believe that his father tried his best to save Binah, but modern medicine has its limits. They can’t save everyone. Such is a fact of life. “ _I’m sure… she won’t blame you._ ”

Binah was close to both of them, and part of him wanted to find something, someone, to blame for her demise. But rationality told him that only her enemies were responsible for that – his father had chosen to give up his post at the front line to dedicate more time to his family, something she understood. If he ever finds them still alive one day, he’s going to make sure they feel the pain she went through.

“ _I failed her._ ”

“ _Dad._ ” He kneels down next to his father, who is now sitting in front of the headstone, and squeezes his shoulder gently. “ _You did not know it would happen. Not your fault.”_

They sit in silence for a while, just staring off into the distance.

His father finally stands up and dusts off his pants. He touches Binah’s name reverently, before turning away to leave. “ _Binah. Goodbye._ ”

It will be a long while before his father can reconcile himself with the truth of Binah’s death. Until then, he will be there, sharing the burden of guilt.

Dragunov salutes the headstone; it feels more appropriate, from one Spetsnaz agent to another. Then he hurries off to join his father.

 

A vine of morning glory has started to climb on the headstone, with a single blue flower blooming next to Binah’s name. He knows she would have loved it, as cliché as it was.

They never saw the drop of morning dew falling from the flower’s petals.

***

After lunch, Dragunov decides to go out for a walk at the lake near his home.

A few women are throwing breadcrumbs to the pigeons. The sound of children’s laughter echoing from a nearby patch of trees; a camp, if he had to guess.

He’s in a shirt and pants; the snow has let up enough to not be freezing cold. He has always tolerated cold weather much better than heat, and the cold of Russia is more often than not just an inconvenience during missions.

The trekking path is empty and that’s all that matters. Being in nature after a long time surrounded by people is rather calming.

Dragunov is just walking down the path, his mind focusing on nothing in particular, when there’s a scream.

His combat instincts snap into high alert.

A child has somehow fallen into the lake. She’s flailing in the water – something Dragunov recognized in people that cannot swim – with her friends standing on the edge and shouting, but none of them are making any attempt to save their friend in the water. Didn’t want to get themselves wet, perhaps.

The girl goes under.

In that moment, Dragunov makes a decision.

He runs towards the girl and dives into the lake.

The water is freezing to his skin, but he ignores it. He wraps an arm around the little body – the lack of reaction worries him – and swims upwards to the surface.

She’s unresponsive even as he lays her down on the grass and starts CPR.

The other kids quickly crowd up around him, but they keep some distance away. Good. He doesn’t need people getting in his personal space while he’s trying to save someone.

His focus narrows down to the little girl as she clung to life in his arms.

_Come on. Fight. Your life is not over yet._

The girl starts coughing up water, then she blinks. Her green eyes focus on him without fear even as he helps her to sit up, still shaking from the cold.

A woman runs over to him.

“ _What did you do to my angel?”_

He’s pissed. This woman leaves her daughter alone unsupervised, then decided to blame him for her kid falling into a freezing lake? He has no patience for this kind of people.

Dragunov stands up to his full height – he towers over her by a full head – and turns towards her-

“ _Don’t blame my son for your own negligence, ma’am._ ”

_His father._

His father has somehow made his way out to where Dragunov is, and is now arguing with the mother of the girl. Moments pass before the woman’s face turns red like a tomato, and she storms off with her soaked daughter in tow. The little girl looks at him helplessly as she is dragged away.

“ _Ungrateful people._ ” His father shakes his head.

With the adrenaline dying down, Dragunov is starting to feel the chill soaking into his flesh. He strips off his soaked shirt – the fabric would just keep the water on his skin and take more body heat. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see his father taking off his own cloak, before the warm fabric slides over his shoulders.

More than a few pairs of eyes followed the curves of his back before his father’s cloak hides it away.

“ _You should head back home and change, Sergei. Can’t afford to have you sick before you return to duty._ ”

A hot shower and dry clothes sound wonderful comparing to the reeking mess his clothes are right now.

***

His father ends up making chicken stew for dinner.

They eat in silence. The entire day has been rather emotionally charged, and Dragunov finds himself drained. He has no energy to even talk right now.

It is not until the cleaning is done and he’s curled up on the couch with a book, that his father speaks. “ _What time are you leaving tomorrow?”_

“ _Command wants me back on base before 2200. I leave at 1700.”_ It’s his last night at home before he returns to base, and the crowd of soldiers that make up his squadron.

He’s both excited for new work, and worried about his father.

“ _Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. You focus on not getting beaten up, okay?_ ”

He leans on his father’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “ _You stay safe too._ ”

His father kisses his forehead instead of answering.

 

Sergei Dragunov has the best family, and he’s not trading it for anything else in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragunov's life with Binah will be expanded on in [i return to the skies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20614604).
> 
> Special thanks to Fyztriarch for helping me selecting a name for Binah. :3

**Author's Note:**

> I do not play Tekken, so my interpretation of Dragunov is entirely based off his wiki entry and what little story information there is from YouTube.
> 
> Visit me on [Tumblr](https://sintharius.tumblr.com/)!


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